Crime Is Common. Logic Is Rare. Therefore

I Could Not Rest, Watson, I Could Not Sit Quiet In My Chair, If I Thought That Such A Man As Professor Moriarty Were Walking The Streets Of London Unchallenged.

Sherlock Holmes Took His Bottle From The Corner Of The Mantel-piece, And His Hypodermic Syringe From Its Neat Morocco Case. With His Long, White, Nervous Fingers He Adjusted The Delicate Needle, And Rolled Back His Left Shirt-cuff. For Some Little Time His Eyes Rested Thoughtfully Upon The Sinewy Forearm And Wrist, All Dotted And Scarred With Innumerable Puncture-marks. Finally, He Thrust The Sharp Point Home, Pressed Down The Tiny Piston, And Sank Back Into The Velvet-lined Armchair With A Long Sigh Of Satisfaction.

The Husband Was A Teetotaller, There Was No Other Woman, And The Conduct Complained Of Was That He Had Drifted Into The Habit Of Winding Up Every Meal By Taking Out His False Teeth And Hurling Them At His Wife.

The Devil’s Agents May Be Of Flesh And Blood, May They Not?

Skill Is Fine, And Genius Is Splendid, But The Right Contacts Are More Valuable Than Either.